


something kept me standing

by softbruise



Category: Sense8 (TV)
Genre: F/M, basically post-canon wolf and kala, i don't know what this is but i'm so fascinated by their relationship, shrug emoji
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 20:08:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4113316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softbruise/pseuds/softbruise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a very long pause, and then he leans into her: slowly, as if giving up a whole part of himself. She moves forward, kneeling between his open legs, wrapping her hands around his neck, and they kiss. It’s all-consuming, as she thinks many things are with him, and she opens her mouth wider and feels heat envelop her -- oh, she could do this forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	something kept me standing

**Author's Note:**

> [title from _kettering_ by the antlers bc i love it and it's on the sense8 soundtrack]
> 
> i love these heteros

She kneels, and the words that always flow so freely when she talks to Ganesha, to her god and her friend, won’t come. Her hands are shaking. She thinks about his hands holding the gun, and how they did not shake, his knuckles white, and how his shoulders were so tense and his eyes so angry but all she could see was hurt. 

The temple buzzes around her, low talk and city sounds. It’s calming, when she comes to pray. Today, she cannot see past it. 

“Ganesha,” she says. In her hands is a basket of offerings but she picks at the wrappings, does not open it. Thinks of his mouth on her mouth and his hand on her jaw and him saying to her, _while this man is alive, no one I care about will ever be safe._

She does not let herself think that those words are the reason she helped him.

“Ganesha,” she tries again. “I killed someone today.” 

Her hands will not stop shaking and she hides them in her lap and looks up at the statue and bites her lip because it is true. She says, “I built a bomb in a stranger’s kitchen and people died.” 

That body was not her body, she tells herself. Those hands were not her hands. 

She is lying. 

There are tears on her cheeks and she hears Wolfgang say, cold, weaponised, volatile, _that is why you have to marry Rajan_ , an image in her mind of laughter and dancing. 

She feels sick to her stomach at the thought of that beautiful, smiling man being her husband forever. 

In her head it plays out again, shot after shot. _You’re a monster, I’m a monster._

It feels far too easy to wonder if he was not talking to his uncle at all. To wonder, even for a second, if he was talking to her. 

“Ganesha,” she says for the third time, and lets her shoulders fall and her spine droop and her head fall into her hands. “How could I have done anything else?”

The scenario unfolds, lit dimly in her mind’s eye. His fingers pull the trigger, fire the last shot, curl up against the counter. Alone. She puts down the pipette and turns to him. _What is happening?_ She hears the shots, closes her ears to them. 

He says, _I guess I’ve come to say goodbye._

The switch is involuntary and violent but she throws herself into his world and looks at him, thinks, _I know what your lips taste like, I know what your pulse feels like against my fingers, thinks, please don’t leave me, not yet, we have so much left to do, you should have turned the car around --_

And the choice is made. 

Kala knows there was never another option.

She killed people today and he killed people today and the worst part is that he’s done it before and she knows it and she knew it when she kissed him and when she felt him fire the gun -- she felt it, she felt everything he felt in that rush of metal and bloodspray, felt him miserable and desperate and alone in an alleyway with glass on the floor and fire in his heart and his bruised ribs with his hands wrapped around that throat so tightly --

She thinks, _turn the wheel and the future changes_. That was what she had done, tearing up that apron and lighting it on fire. Spun the wheel three hundred and sixty degrees and kept him alive at such a cost. 

That, out of all of it, is the worst part. Because she knows objectively that his life, his body and hands and him kissing her, isn’t worth seven lives. She thinks he might tell her it isn’t even worth one. 

But she can’t regret it. No matter how much she wishes she could. 

She isn’t crying anymore. Maybe that’s him, buried away in some strange cavity in her chest with the others, not letting her. She thinks to herself, very quietly, _fuck you._

And she could almost convince herself she hears him laugh. 

 

In an instant she’s beside him, and he shudders, a full body movement that makes her ache to put her arms around him. She does not. Of course she is here, with him -- she tries to pull herself back to the temple but she fails, and knows he would not follow if she could. 

“Kala,” he says, weary. “Go home.”

“I cannot.”

He meets her eyes, and she sees a sharpness there that was not present before, and thinks, _please, do not be broken._

“Go home, Kala. I don’t want you here.” 

She can feel that it’s a lie, but she doesn’t call him out on it. Instead, she glances around at wherever _here_ is. It’s an apartment room, bare, a bed against the wall and little else; his back is pushed up against the mattress and his knees are drawn up, his hands resting in between them. Even like this, all bruises and knife edges, the smallest she has ever seen him, he looks casual and violent. She supposes you can’t cut hate out of yourself with hate.

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” he asks her, and it’s the bitterness and exhaustion in his voice that gives her strength: she steps forward, crouches, shakes her head. 

“I’ve tried,” she says softly, echoing his own words back to him in a gentle breath. “Believe me, I’ve tried not to think of you.” She cups his head in her hands, and now he is shaking and she holds him tightly. Their foreheads brush, and she tells him, “But every time, it brings me straight to you.”

She pulls back long enough to search his eyes, and before she can lean forward he is ravishing her mouth, a softness buried in that rough gesture that she cannot understand. As quickly as it begins it is over: he yanks himself away and she makes a small sound of protest. 

“No, no,” he says, breathing hard, unable to look at her. “I’m not a good man, Kala. Please.”

“You killed him,” she says, and it hurts to say, but she doesn’t know if it’s her pain or his. “You didn’t do it for you. You didn’t do it to watch him --” and she steels herself -- “to watch him bleed out on that carpet in his damn bulletproof vest.”

His eyes are dull. “Then why?” he asks, and they’re almost the same person, everything she feels feeding back to him and everything he feels flooding into her. 

“For me,” she says, because he’s already said it and she knows that he was telling the truth. “For Felix. For all of us.” And by _us _they both know who she means.__

__There is a very long pause, and then he leans into her: slowly, as if giving up a whole part of himself. She moves forward, kneeling between his open legs, wrapping her hands around his neck, and they kiss. It’s all-consuming, as she thinks many things are with him, and she opens her mouth wider and feels heat envelop her -- oh, she could do this forever._ _

__“I’m going to kill people again,” he whispers, like a confession, and she nods._ _

__“I know,” she says. “I know.”_ _

__“Are you okay with that?”_ _

__Her lips fall into a half smile. “Not really.” She kisses his neck, under his ear, at his pulse point, his collar bone. “But I will take on my obstacles as Ganesha delivers.”_ _

__Head tilted back, smile drifting back to his face, Wolfgang is suddenly alone._ _

__But he’s never really alone anymore._ _


End file.
